The World That Men Built
by Stratagem Blue
Summary: In order to escape the world around him, Erik designed a fortress of solitude and genius in which to hide. Yet before he could build it, there was one man he had to see. Leroux based.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, nor do I own Charles Garnier or anything associated with him.

A/N: This is just my own idea of how the Opera Garnier came into existence. It is written in first person, from the POV of Charles Garnier himself, and it concerns the meeting between him and Erik, in which we see the beginnings of Erik's architectural plan for his opera house. This is Leroux based, though I have no idea how he envisioned the way Erik came to reign there. I just found myself pondering the start of Erik as the Opera Ghost, and I decided to create my own version of events. I hope you are as intrigued to find out as I was to write it, so read on.

* * *

The room was utterly still, the corners draped in shadow. Outside, the pattering of rain fell relentlessly upon the roof, with tiny little droplets trickling down the darkened windows. The blackest night seemed to envelope the world around me, and I shivered at the thought of a sunless existence.

I retreated to my desk, surrounded by the same familiar bookcases and covered in the same familiar blueprints. Throwing my coat over the back of a chair, I went to the table behind it and poured myself a glass of bourbon, letting it slowly warm my exhausted muscles and my battered mind. The wind howled like an angry spirit against the house, whistling through the dampened branches of the trees.

I sat down with a sigh of fatigue, not even bothering to shake the rainwater from my clothes. My eyes wandered over the vague drawings laid out on my desktop, the plans unclear and shapeless, unformed ideas of architectural dreams. I sighed again, but this time in melancholy.

My talent had dissipated, declining steadily until I believed it would never return. I had traveled to the farthest reaches of Greece, attended the finest of universities for architectural design, and had even won awards to commemorate my abilities, my _supposed _genius, and yet now I sat without a single new thought inside my head. I felt completely adrift, lost in past accomplishments and waiting for another.

_Perhaps this is the end of my stretch_, I thought pensively, my eyes still held to the unfinished sketches, now worn from neglect. _Perhaps I have outlived my usefulness. It seems that all manner of triumph is long past, anyway. I guess it's time to move on, though to where I can only fathom..._

As I stood and prepared to turn in for the night, stretching my stiffened limbs, movement caught my eye from one of the dimmed corners of the room. Before I could even begin to discern what was there, a strange and captivating voice floated out of the dark, rendering me immovable.

"Monsieur Garnier, I've been meaning to speak with you for some time."

From the right a figure materialized, seeming almost to be garbed in the shadows he emerged from. He moved with a peculiar grace, a fluid motion nearly effortless, and for some reason I found it oddly sinister. His cloak was wrapped close about him, a fedora slung low over his brow. Yet what held my attention most, what _commanded _it, was the mask that covered nearly his entire face, save for his mouth and chin.

Golden eyes examined me from the depthless slits, glowing faintly from their sockets.

My heart began to beat faster. A panic blossomed in my mind, making it hard to breath. I remembered my pistol, lying in the top drawer of my desk. Slowly, I leaned forward, my right hand only inches from the handle. As my fingertips brushed the cool metal, he spoke again.

"I think you'll find, monsieur, that the drawer is empty."

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice reasonably calm. "And why have you broken into my home?"

"I did not mean to startle you," he replied, avoiding my question. His eyes shifted just slightly. "Nor have I robbed you."

"Except for my pistol," I said, and he chuckled lightly. The sound was vaguely magical in a way that haunted me, and through great care I suppressed a shudder.

"Do not worry; I will return your pistol, and your peace of mind, as soon you have heard my proposal."

"Proposal?"

"You are an architect, monsieur, correct?"

"Yes," I replied, my unease deepening as he moved closer to the edge of my desk.

"As am I." He spoke casually, as though he were merely an acquaintance, and not an intruder. "Yet I believe, from your extended silence to the architectural world, that you have come to an impasse of sorts."

"I plan to retire," I said quickly, but the words were distinguished as lies the moment they passed my lips. His thin mouth twisted into a knowing smile, and I felt suddenly foolish at the idea that this man knew more of myself than I did.

"I'm sure," he replied, his eyes never wavering from mine. "But before you pursue such a course, I would have you consider another."

"Your proposal?"

"Yes."

He was now standing directly across from me with nothing but the desk to separate us. A faint odor of dust and decay reached me, a smell that I had always associated with death. I found myself regarding his pallid hands, the bleached pallor of the skin, and how skeletal they appeared. Noticing where my gaze had wandered, he pulled a pair of leather gloves from inside his cloak and slipped them on. For a moment his eyes gleamed dangerously behind the mask, causing a chill to run up my spine. It was as though he had sensed my thoughts, my aversion to him, daring me to speak of it aloud.

"I have written out the blueprints for a structure that I have not the means to build," he continued, beginning to pace once more across the room. "It is a product of beauty, and of genius, which of the two, I have only one. I have even found an appropriate site for it, directly in the heart of Paris."

"What kind of structure?" I asked, intrigued despite my fear.

"It is an opera house."

"An opera house?" He paused at my surprise, turning slowly to face me.

"Yes, an opera house, fashioned after the Baroque period. Very ornate." He smiled vaguely, though I felt that it was directed inwards rather than towards me. "You see, I am first and foremost a musician, though infinitely much more than that. I have many talents, but my greatest and most passionate works have been through sound. It is by far my most peaceful means of expression."

Ignoring the implications of his last statement, I asked, "And how much of this structure of you already planned out?"

He smiled ruefully. "All of it."

I tensed for a moment as he reached inside his robes, but it was only a rolled up document that he withdrew. With that same unnatural grace he came to the desk and laid the blueprint out before me, the parchment itself tattered and yellow from age.

The design was overwhelmingly intricate, and I felt suddenly humbled by the sheer magnitude of it. Immense golden statues were to be erected around the outside, Apollo and other Greek deities, with elaborate doors and beautifully sculptured windows. There were rooms spanning back from the stage, enough to house at least four hundred, with an auditorium to seat an even greater number than that. A wondrous painted ceiling would overlook the entire chamber, with an enormous chandelier to be at the center, weighing over six tons.

Yet what captivated me were the intricacies _inside _the walls. Hidden doors, hidden rooms; a hollow cavity in the balcony he had dubbed Box Five. Secret passageways leading to various points all over the theater, as well as a vast network of corridors just beneath the building. And even further below this were other hidden rooms, alongside an extensive underground lake, and to which every other external access had been barred.

"Monsieur-," I began weakly, but he cut me off with nothing more than a soft whisper.

"Erik."

"Erik," I repeated, meeting that unfathomable gaze. "It is a marvelous opera house. A work of genius, as you said. I can provide the funds to build it, if that's what you seek. But why have you had us conduct this meeting in such secrecy? What else have you to ask of me?"

"Only your name, Garnier."

I stared at him, a tight knot of foreboding in my stomach. "I don't understand you."

"Simply, it will be your invention, not mine," he replied, as though it truly were that simple.

"You mean, you want me to present this...as _my_ work?"

"Precisely," he answered, and for a moment all I could do was gape. In the wake of my silence he added, "To be sure, it will be your greatest work to date."

"But why?" I asked, unable to comprehend. "Why would you wish me to take credit for your work?"

With a contemptuous glance he turned away from me. "My reasons are my own."

"As are mine." He turned back, observing me curiously. I chose my words slowly and with caution, and with a certain amount of dread. "I'm sorry, but I cannot do what you ask."

He took a step closer to the desk, glaring at me lethally with a calm composure. I swallowed. "And why is that?"

"Because it isn't mine," I replied.

"So you would end your career now, without any recent achievements, and forfeit a last chance at renown?"

He was trying to bait me with regret, and so persuade me to follow his course of action. I did not know him well enough to distinguish if the end of my career should be my retirement, or an indirect way of threatening my life, but I found it really had no bearing on my decision.

"I would rather be praised for what I have done than to assume a false mantel," I said, and suppressed another shudder as I kept eye contact. "I cannot put my name to something that I do not deserve. Not, at least, without knowing why."

Such a deafening silence ensued, in which the intensity of his stare nearly penetrated my resolve, that I wondered if he were truly contemplating murder. Yet after a brief pause he sighed deeply, a sound so utterly sad that I found myself almost reaching out to grasp his shoulder. He walked over to stand by the window, his golden eyes alight in every raindrop that passed over his reflection.

"Monsieur, I would then ask it of you as a favor," he said quietly. Then, so faint I had to strain to hear, he whispered, "It means a great deal to me."

My gaze fell to the blueprint once more, scanning over the hidden passageways and the secluded chambers he had envisioned. I could see the emotionless leather of his mask refracted in the window, disturbingly similar to the smooth contours of a skull. I wondered distantly at his identity; who he was, where he came from. As I looked back down at the faded diagrams, my mind was suddenly lit like a beacon from the shoreline, illuminating my comprehension like a ship at sea.

_It is a product of beauty, and of genius, which of the two, I have only one._

"You mean to live there," I breathed.

I could only marvel at the creature in front of me, so divided by brilliance and sorrow that I could barely speak. He faced me, the truth of my statement revealed in his lack of a response. Was it a deformity? A scar? I had initially believed that the mask had served only to hide his face from _me_, so that I could not identify him to the authorities. Yet as I stood there, I could only imagine at the mystery which lay beneath.

"I have found, through great error and rapt misfortune, that I simply cannot exist in the public eye," he said defensively, trying to drive away my shock with a simple explanation. Yet as he looked at me, I saw something give way in his eyes, in his posture. He seemed suddenly undone, as though his guard had been toppled in light of his need. "I have no where else to go, monsieur. I cannot live in the world of men, and so I choose to live below it."

I hated the sound of those words, so deprived of hope or warmth that they seemed to echo, ringing in my ears with their untold story. With more daring than I actually had, (and on legs that did not feel as sturdy as I would have liked), I walked slowly around the desk and came to stand in front of him, only a few feet separating us at best. He stared at me curiously and with caution, though he knew he had nothing to fear from me.

"What would we name this opera house?"

He smiled softly. "I was thinking _Academie Royale de Musique_, as Louis XIV would have had it for his own opera."

"You know, the land for which you plan to build this on is for open bid right now," I replied, waiting a moment for his reaction. He only continued to smile. I proceeded slowly. "In order to obtain it, we have to give the highest bid in the competition."

"And so we will," he said, and then added, "Or rather, you will monsieur."

"Charles," I said, and I held out my hand, feeling rather foolish offering it up to the man who had invaded my house.

At first I thought he wasn't going to take it. He stared at my hand as though it were some foreign thing, and that it might harm him if he touched it. But then, gradually, he reached out and grasped my hand. I almost pulled back, the skin beneath the glove unusually cold, the fingers so thin as to be nearly brittle. Yet I felt the gratitude in that grip, and I resigned myself.

"Charles," he repeated.

"I'm not sure the name will stick though," I confessed, and he laughed softly, a sound that was almost musical. "I meant the name for the opera house."

"Perhaps the _Palais Garnier_, then," he said, and with a final shake of the hand he released mine. As he turned toward the door, I realized he had slipped me back my pistol, and that I now held it in my outstretched hand.

"I will be contacting you shortly, to work out the finer details and to instruct you as needed. I'll let myself in as I choose, if you don't mind the intrusion. I have a feeling that you would have a hard time in contacting me, as I have no address as of yet."

"Erik," I called as he reached the door. He paused, turning back to me as though in dread. I knew the image of those evocative golden eyes, so much older than the man behind them, would never leave me. "Who are you? Who are you _really_?"

He shook his head, and at the sight I felt my throat constrict. "So many things, and yet I've forgotten. Possibly I never knew, or I chose not to remember. Either way, I'm just Erik now. Just a ghost of a former man that never lived."

"But you did," I said without thinking, and he gazed at me intently, as though I had spoken out of turn. I reached behind me and ran my hand gently over the etchings he had drawn, immeasurable intellect on paper. "Someone who never lived could never create."

He said no word. Instead, he reach up with one of his thin, fragile fingers and tapped the mask lightly, a gesture I never fully understood. With a gesture of the hand he bowed to me, something I would have found comedic in any other situation but this, and then he swept through the door. I was left in the solitude of my office, nothing but the sound of consistent rain and hollow wind to fill the sudden emptiness I felt.

I went back to my desk and sat down, my eyes immediately held to the blueprints that Erik had entrusted to me. I could suddenly envision the dank and musty passageways, the realms within the walls, spanning out above the rafters, above the opera house at the very peak of its roof, and in the caverns below. Would he live there for the rest of his life? I shivered at the thought of him moving throughout that massive hideaway for years without measure, sailing dark waters and playing music that would never reach the surface. What would he become eventually, in that forbidden place where no other men would venture?

And with morbid wonder, I realized I knew the answer. He had already told me himself; he would become a phantom, far away in a world separate from the one that men had built for him.

* * *

A/N: Well, that's how I saw it. Please, please review my oneshot and tell me if it was worth the effort. 


End file.
